


forty days and forty nights

by theworldabouttodawn



Series: more than just a dream [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 02:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10934772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theworldabouttodawn/pseuds/theworldabouttodawn
Summary: they make a good team, so ryan’s okay with being the odd one out. that is, until he’s the only one left.or, the quasi-inception au this fandom doesn’t need.





	forty days and forty nights

**Author's Note:**

> this entire thing happened just bc i had the thought that hallsy has v tom hardy-esque lips whoops
> 
> inception is my favourite movie, okay, but it’s been a long, long time since i’ve seen it. so i took lots and lots of liberties with dream mechanics and projections and things like that. some aspects of this fic are borrowed from one of my original works as well. i played fast and loose with the rules, so don’t go expecting this to be true to inception (or inception fanworks) in any way lmao. 
> 
> also a few warnings: there's some violence but nothing graphic. also, this ends in a cliffhanger, although the main plot does wrap up. 
> 
> title from fitz and the tantrums’ “out of my league”
> 
> bless sammie for betaing ilu and idk what i'd do without u

Taylor slips in and out of shapes with a reckless abandon, completely unconcerned with preserving his own identity. Jordan can charm the darkest secrets out of the most closefisted miser with just a few well-placed words and a safe deep within the dream.

But Ryan?

Ryan just draws.

Sure, he can draw _anything_ , castles with towering spires and resorts on the edge of limitless oceans and impossible alien geometries floating in a vat of stars, but what good is that? He wants to fall into the dream himself instead of just teaching his partners his designs.

Jordan won’t let him though, says that he’s “still young, okay, and you have so much potential. If we get caught, you could still have plausible deniability. You could get off scot-free.”

Ryan doesn’t argue that he wants to stay with them forever, through thick and thin, but he wants to. This is the life he chose, with these people, and he’ll be damned if he ever turns tail and runs.

* * *

They picked him up fresh out of art school. To this day, Ryan still doesn’t know how they found him, but it doesn’t really matter. Not when they connected him to a PASIV and slipped somnacin into his veins and he found out just what he could build when he didn’t have gravity or physics to constrain him. It was addictive from the very start.

He hasn’t been under ever since. Some days he wonders if he can somehow sneak the PASIV away from Jordan for long enough just to drop under into his own mind and relive the rush, but he knows that he’d never go through with that. Dreamshare is still everything he ever wanted, even without the luxury of actually doing the dreaming.

* * *

The phone rings somewhere in their apartment, but Ryan can’t be bothered to get up to go answer it when the clock on his bedside table reads something obscene like 6:25. (He could be wrong. It could be 8, but his eyes are still bleary and he _really_ doesn’t want to leave his bed.)

Jordan’s voice drifts through the ridiculously thin walls, just on the wrong side of understandable, and Ryan could fall back asleep to his gentle lilt. He doesn’t, however, because he knows that in just a moment, _someone_ is going to –

“Taylor, get the _fuck_ up!” Jordan yells, followed by a few squawks of distress and a loud _thump_. Ryan sighs and rolls out of bed as well before Taylor tries to run to him for help. He doesn’t need to be dumped out of bed two days in a row.

When he comes into the living room, Taylor is already chasing Jordan around with a pillow, screaming bloody murder about “let us fucking sleep, Jesus, I don’t _care_ that we got a new job, couldn’t that have waited until like ten?”

Jordan doesn’t bother defending himself, instead choosing to ignore Taylor completely once Ryan makes an appearance. “Good to see _someone_ can get up by himself,” he says.

“I’m only up because you’re loud,” Ryan says grumpily. “What’s the job?”

“Corporate again,” Jordan says. “Nothing special.”

“Then why am I awake so early?” Taylor asks incredulously.

“Because we’re going to Dallas and you need to pack your fucking bag,” Jordan says. “Come on, Ryan, we need to set up our security before we go.”

Ryan doesn’t tell him that there’s no need for said security measures and Jordan’s just ridiculously paranoid.

* * *

Their client is a bearded, tattooed yuppie with a crooked tie and a wide grin who introduces himself as “Tyler, but you can call me anytime” to all three of them at the same time. Well, really, their client is Tyler’s employer Victory Star, who wants them to steal a Swiss bank account routing number from the CEO of their biggest competitor.

“Peter Chiarelli got me fired from Bostursa,” Tyler says. “I was his PA and noticed that the same discrepancy kept popping up in his books. He wouldn’t tell me what was going on when I asked, but there were things that he wouldn’t let me touch after that, meetings that I wasn’t allowed to attend. So I snuck some files off his laptop one night to take to the authorities.”

“Did that work out?” Taylor asks curiously.

Tyler snorts. “Of course not,” he says. “They told me it could wait until the morning, but by that time he had already fired me and blacklisted me to literally everyone he knew. And the police couldn’t do anything, said that what I had wasn’t enough for a search warrant, let alone charges.”

Jordan’s confused. “But you work for VicStar now?”

“Oh, Jamie’s cool, doesn’t really listen to what anyone tells him,” Tyler says, shrugging. “That is – Jamie Benn, my new boss. He’s the one who’s hiring you, really, but I know more about the situation, which is why I’m here instead of him. Anyways, he hired me when he heard about the whole thing with Chiarelli. VicStar has been suspicious of Bostursa’s – _unscrupulous_ business activities, but Jamie saw this as an opportunity to finally take them down.”

“So what are you even going to do with the account number, though?” Taylor asks. “You can’t just go to the authorities. They’d ask you how you got it.”

“That’s none of your business,” Tyler says sharply. The smile stays on his face, but it takes on a far more menacing quality that speaks to exactly _why_ Jamie Benn sent him to meet with dream goons-for-hire. “Your job is to get us the information.”

Placating, Jordan responds hurriedly, “Okay, okay, we won’t ask that kind of question. How are we getting paid?”

“Half paid up front, right here, and half to be paid when you come back with the account number and we confirm it’s the one we’re looking for,” Tyler answers. “Now, gentlemen, if there isn’t anything else, I have the details and a layout over in the next room for you.”

* * *

The first hint that something’s wrong with this job appears the next day when Jordan finds out that Peter Chiarelli doesn’t even work for Bostursa anymore. He’s moved onto bigger and better pastures with Edmonton Oil, although they question how much better those pastures really are when EdOil stock has been stagnant and low-valued for the past _decade_ and there’s no reason to suggest why it still even exists.

Jordan calls Tyler on a burner phone and asks to speak to Mr Benn. Tyler, unsurprisingly, tells them that they can’t, Jamie’s in a meeting and can’t be bothered, etc, etc, but then says that the job is still a go. Even if Chiarelli doesn’t work for Bostursa, he still knows the bank account number, and there’s got to be records of it somewhere that VicStar can use to bring Bostursa down. The real problem, Tyler says, is that he doesn’t know anything about EdOil and doesn’t know how they could get the details they need to pull this job off.

That’s no hurdle for them, though, not when Taylor seems to have an in everywhere they work. His contact is German, a graphic designer, and somehow has his finger on the pulse of everything that happens in his company. Taylor comes home from Edmonton with a briefcase full of blueprints and many more numbers in his phone from various receptionists, secretaries, baristas, flight attendants and who he claims is EdOil’s head of PR. Ryan doesn’t give his bullshit the time of day, but Jordan drags him off for the next half hour while Ryan studies the blueprints.

(Jordan gets jealous easily, okay? It’s funny sometimes, but also none of Ryan’s business.)

When they come back to their workroom, hair mussed and Taylor’s shirt on backwards, Ryan’s already drawn up his own sketch of Chiarelli’s office at the centre of a maze. “The safe in his office is obviously where he would keep anything important,” Ryan says when Jordan comes around to look at the sketch. “We just need to figure out how to keep him out of there.”

“His dreaming mind will be drawn to the familiar,” Jordan agrees. “What if we–”

They both turn to look at Taylor at the same time.

“I’m _not_ seducing Chiarelli,” he protests. “Be creative and come up with something else.”

“We could – we could put another focus in the maze?” Ryan offers hesitantly. “But then we’d have to make sure he appears in the right one, and keep the safe out of the one he’s in, and–”

Taylor interrupts him before he can continue. “We can do that,” he says quickly.

He gets two very sceptical looks turned on him, but Jordan sighs and allows it. “It’ll be more difficult, but we can make it work.”

“If you say so,” Ryan says doubtfully. “I’ll do a new design.”

“Okay, good, you do that. Taylor, we need to figure out when and how we’re gonna have access to the mark,” Jordan says, placing a hand on the small of Taylor’s back and ushering him off to their room.

Ryan very determinedly does not look at them.

* * *

A week later, Jordan and Taylor have finally finished figuring out how they’re going to get Chiarelli into the dream in the first place. Ryan thinks that maybe that should have been the _last_ step, considering that they still don’t know how long they’ll need for this job, but he’s still working on the design of the dream and teaching the intricacies of the maze to them and they needed something to do.

He comes home from a grocery run to find both of his partners passed out on the kitchen table, a PASIV between them and tubes hooked into their veins. There’s a third coil temptingly springing out of the mechanism, looking for all the world like it’s inviting Ryan in to share their dreams.

And, well, he’s a weak man, and it’s been so long since he last dreamed like this. The timer still gives them about fifteen minutes under, so Ryan puts the groceries away as quickly as he can and sits down between Jordan and Taylor, slipping the third IV tube into his forearm and depressing the plunger like he’s seen them do so many times before.

He’s on a spiral staircase that plunges down endlessly into darkness. There’s nothing noteworthy above him, at least not from what he can see when he looks up, so he walks down instead.

There’s a landing somewhere along the line leading off into a long hallway, illuminated only by the faint light at the very end. A tall, dark figure stands at the other end, a blurry silhouette. Curious, Ryan carefully makes his way down the hall that seems to extend with every step he takes.

Jordan’s at the end, staring through some kind of transparent barrier into a dimly lit hotel room. There are two people lying on the single king sized bed, exchanging lazy kisses and soft words, and for a second Ryan thinks that that’s Jordan and Taylor in the room and the Jordan next to him is a projection. But then one of the people on the bed rolls on top of the other, and – that’s not Jordan.

Ryan thought he was staying silent, but Jordan must hear him somehow because he turns to him. “You don’t show up here that often,” he says, seemingly unsurprised. “Seen anything?”

“Nothing,” Ryan responds, shaking his head. “What’s going on here?”

“You’ve seen this before,” Jordan says dismissively, turning back to the scene in front of them. “I guess you must be Taylor’s, then. What are you doing here?”

Ryan raises an eyebrow. “I – _haven’t_ seen this before?” he says – asks, really.

Jordan glances at him, realisation hitting like a kick. “You’re – you’re not a projection. Ryan, what are you _doing_ here?” he repeats.

Ryan shrugs. “I want to dream too, you know,” he says, completely unrepentant.

“Ryan, you – ugh, never mind, okay, fair enough,” Jordan relents. “This isn’t work-related, though. This is personal business.” He turns back to the glass, eyes only for the scene in front of them.

“Who – who is that?” Ryan asks, pointing at the shadowy figure on top of Taylor.

“That’s Adam Henrique,” Jordan says without looking at him. “Taylor’s ex.”

“Oh–” Ryan has no idea how to respond to this.

Jordan sighs. “He shouldn’t be here. This dream – it belongs to Taylor and me both. He’s been seeing Ri – Adam – in the dream for a few weeks now. We were trying to see if he would still appear if this was our dream and not just Taylor’s, but–”

Ryan furrows his brow. “Isn’t he just a projection, though? You must have projections of me running around if that’s what you thought I was at first. Why wouldn’t Taylor have one of his ex?”

“It’s–” Jordan shakes his head. “It’s a long story.”

Making a vague gesture at the dream around them, Ryan shrugs. “I’ve got time.”

In response, Jordan turns and goes back down the hall. “Come on, I need to show you something.”

Ryan follows him further down the stairs, watching his step as the ambient light dims, but Jordan still continues on into the darkness. Finally, they stop at another landing, this one with a door. Unlocking it with a skeleton key, Jordan ushers him through into an abandoned field, grass long and unkempt. A cold wind whistles around them, sending shivers racing down Ryan’s spine, but Jordan seems completely unaffected.

He points to two figures in the distance. “Watch,” he says shortly. Voices carry to them on the wind, but they’re still too far away to make out any of the actual conversation. Jordan doesn’t move any closer, though, so Ryan doesn’t either.

The wind picks up, carrying their voices to them even as they walk closer themselves. “Here, it’s flat here,” one of them says.

“Why are we doing it out here?” the other complains. “We have perfectly comfortable chairs back in the lab. It’s cold, and the ground’s hard, and –”

“Oh my _god_ , Hallsy, stop complaining,” and Ryan realises with a jolt that that’s Jordan – or, a projection of a younger Jordan. A memory? He doesn’t dream with the PASIV, he doesn’t know the terminology. “You know exactly why we’re not in the lab.”

Projection-Taylor (?) sighs, but sits down anyways. “Okay, fine.”

Without another word, Projection-Jordan joins him and fiddles with a piece of equipment on the ground that must be some kind of proto-PASIV. Before he can slip a needle into Projection-Taylor’s veins, however, a phone rings.

Sighing, Projection-Taylor says, “Hold up, it’s Adam,” and takes the call.

Ryan wants to keep on watching, feels drawn to what’s happening, but Jordan – the real Jordan – clears his throat. “Come on, let’s go. I can’t watch this.”

“What happened?” Ryan asks even as he turns away.

“We were testing out a theory,” Jordan says slowly, refusing to make eye contact. “And Rico – Adam called, said he really needed Taylor’s help for something. Taylor brushed him off and dreamed with me instead.” He falls silent.

But Ryan needs to know. “And?”

“And Adam needed Taylor to ground him in another experimental dream. Taylor wasn’t there, but Adam still forged, for the first time, and he lost all memories of us,” Jordan answers slowly. “Taylor feels like it’s his fault Adam lost dreamshare, and I feel like it’s mine, but he’s not supposed to show up, even as a projection in our dreams.”

“I’m – I’m so sorry,” Ryan says, taken aback. “I didn’t know.”

Soft, Jordan responds, “Of course you didn’t. We didn’t want you to.” Then he adds, “I’m sorry, Ryan. This won’t hurt a bit,” and only then does Ryan feel the muzzle of a gun pressed into his chest, right atop his heart.

He blinks in surprise, mind still racing to catch up. “What – what are you doing?”

“I need to go back,” Jordan says softly. “I need to see them again. Without you.” He pulls the trigger, and–

Ryan wakes up with a jolt. Carefully, he takes the IV out of his arm and puts it back into the PASIV, trying to pretend like he hadn’t intruded on this supremely private experience. He doesn’t think about how much it hurts that they didn’t trust him with this information. Or, he realises, with anything from their pasts.

* * *

They don’t talk about it when Taylor and Jordan wake up five minutes later. Jordan helps Ryan with dinner, and Taylor stares at dossiers and watches video, and then they go to bed after discussing what they need to do next.

The next morning, however, is a completely different story. Taylor doesn’t even wait for Ryan to start eating his oatmeal before saying, “Jordan told me he told you about Adam.”

“Yeah,” Ryan responds, really just wondering how Taylor is already so awake for this conversation. Then, “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Taylor ponders the question for a moment, spoon still in his mouth. Finally, he swallows, looks Ryan straight in the eye, and says, “No.”

“Why – why not?” Ryan asks. And, before he can stop himself, “Is it because you don’t trust me?”

Taylor looks horrified at the very thought, and Ryan feels a pang of guilt at turning the tables on him. “It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Taylor protests. “Why would we let you create all our dreams? It’s – it’s something else. That I can’t talk about.”

“So why won’t you let me dream?” Ryan demands. “I’m just as much a part of this team, aren’t I?”

“I’m not saying you’re not,” Taylor says, placating. “But we’ve told you, if we ever get caught, you don’t need to go down with us.”

Ryan scoffs. “I have an art degree and no experience, no gallery exhibitions since I graduated, no commissions – dreamshare is all I have. If you ever go down, then I’m going down with you.”

Taylor looks pained, as if there’s something gnawing at him that he really needs to get out but doesn’t know how to. All he can come up with is “You’re not the one actually committing the crime,” which, as a reason, is flimsy as anything, considering how Ryan’s definitely an accomplice at the very least.

But Jordan walks into the kitchen before he can respond, so he just – doesn’t. The song and dance is old by now, and Ryan doesn’t expect it to ever change. Not for lack of trying, though.

* * *

The day Jordan and Taylor are set to leave, they rush out the door in the morning with a flurry of activity and more than one ticket mishap. Ryan wonders how on earth they’ve gotten this far, being the way they are, but they’re good at their job so that’s what matters.

He goes through the motions for the rest of the day, working on a few projects he hasn’t had time for since they got this job. There’s one that he keeps on coming back to, though, one he started the day they got back from Dallas. He’s still trying to sketch it out before he starts painting (and the sketches usually turn out better than the paintings, anyways), and he has no idea where it’s coming from, but the canvas is lined with the rough outlines of a gurney in the middle of a laboratory.

It feels familiar, somehow, the scene that he’s working on, but the last time he set foot inside any kind of lab was in high school chemistry, and that was a _long_ time ago. Nevertheless, he finds himself shading and sketching almost without thinking about it, watching the scene come together under his hands. He knows it would sound dumb if he ever said it out loud, but this drawing _calls_ to him, somehow.

Maybe he’ll finish something while Jordan and Taylor are away. It’s not like he ever has anything else to do when they don’t have a job.

The phone rings as he’s making dinner, and he almost knocks over the open jar of tomato sauce in his haste to get it. “Hello?”

“Made it to Edmonton,” Jordan says. “Just letting you know. Don’t expect any more communication until after the job.” This is routine, of _course_ Ryan knows that it’s too risky for Jordan and Taylor to call him once they start setting up for the extraction. It’s comforting, though, to have this happen every time.

“Good luck,” Ryan says lamely, wishing (as always) that there was more he could say or do. But he’s done his part. It’s up to them.

“We’ll call you separately once we’re back at Pearson,” Jordan says. “If we don’t – well, you know what to do.”

* * *

Ryan definitely knows what to do. It’s been drilled into his mind since the first job he ever did with Jordan and Taylor. But he never thought he would ever need to do it.

The promised calls don’t come (and don’t come and don’t come). The first few hours, he just assumes there’s been a delay because they’re in _Edmonton_ and it’s late fall (never mind that skies have been clear in Alberta, he’s been checking), but suddenly it’s been half a day and he’s heard absolutely nothing and he’s getting concerned.

He still waits though.

But then it’s been a day, and neither Taylor nor Jordan has checked in. Ryan needs to make a call of his own.

They live in Toronto because it’s a big city on the opposite side of the country from where they grew up, far away from family and friends and their pasts, but the problem with that is that they don’t know anyone in the city. And the number that Jordan made Ryan memorise is international, so he fully expects to have to pack up and move halfway across the world or something where Jordan’s planned out a new life for him (and _that’s_ something he’s going to have to think long and hard about later).

But the soft-spoken guy on the other end of the line sounds Canadian, GTA born and raised. “This is Connor. Are you looking for hockey lessons?”

“Yeah, but I’m only free on Tuesdays at two in the morning,” Ryan responds carefully, the code engraved in his memory. There’s a tremor in his voice, but he’s doing his damnedest to hide it.

He hears a sharp intake of breath, but Connor must quickly collect himself because his words are still calm and measured. “Yeah, for sure, I can do that. Can you get to the ACC? I can pick you up tomorrow at ten am.”

“Okay, yes, okay, I can do that,” Ryan says on a long exhale.

“I’ll be in a Maple Leafs shirt and driving a silver sedan,” Connor adds. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you,” Ryan says, and then the line clicks dead.

He leans forward onto the dining table, head in his hands, and finally lets himself breathe. For the past few days, he’s been so overcome by worry and stress about Jordan and Taylor, about his own future, about what’s coming next. He still doesn’t have his partners next to him, but at least he knows where he’s going.

* * *

Connor turns out to look exactly like he sounds, soft-spoken and white bread boring, maybe a few years younger than Ryan. When Ryan slides into the passenger seat of his car and throws his duffel bag into the back seat, Connor actually sticks out his hand for a shake. “I’m Connor,” he says with a shy grin.

“I know,” Ryan says, because it’s been a long few days and he really just wants to have a single uninterrupted decent night of sleep. He shakes Connor’s hand anyways. “I’m Ryan. Thanks for coming.”

“Oh, of course,” Connor says, starting the car and pulling out of the parking lot. He doesn’t say any more, and Ryan doesn’t know what to say. But he’s – not comfortable, exactly, but content with silence, honestly just needing a rest after the past few days.

Eventually, though, he asks, “How do you know Taylor and Jordan?”

Eyes still on the road, Connor shrugs. “Went to school with them,” he says. “We – they set this up a long time ago, this whole thing with taking care of you if they ever got caught.”

Ryan’s not sure how he feels about being taken care of, but at this point, he’ll take what he can get. “Did they have a plan for getting back if they ever got caught?”

“I don’t know,” Connor admits. “They’ve always been worried about others far more than themselves.”

“Sounds about right,” Ryan says, startling himself with the note of fondness in his voice.

“They’re good guys,” Connor agrees. “Have you heard anything from them?”

Ryan sighs. “Nothing,” he answers. “I have no idea what happened.”

“That sucks,” Connor says.

“They’ll be fine,” Ryan hears himself saying. “They’re good at what they do. They’ll be all right,” and it’s what he’s been trying to reassure himself about for the past 24 hours, but saying it out loud makes it – more true, somehow. Like he almost believes it.

Connor smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I think they will.”

* * *

Connor lives with his partner (boyfriend? Ryan doesn’t know, and it’s not his place to ask) Dylan, who’s loud and mischievous and apparently runs point on their extraction jobs. He seems to take to Ryan immediately, recruiting him into chopping vegetables for dinner.

Despite the flow of constant chatter (and odd jokes at Connor’s expense), he doesn’t bring up Jordan or Taylor, which Ryan is absurdly thankful for. Instead, he asks Ryan about art school (and genuinely seems interested in it, besides) before dragging him off to play Call of Duty after dinner. Connor seems to be watching the proceedings from afar, a bemused expression on his face, but declines to join when Ryan asks.

But it’s good. Connor’s nice, if quiet, and Dylan is tactful and distracts Ryan from worrying, if only for a little while.

* * *

Ryan’s phone rings about a week into his stay with Connor and Dylan. The only people who have his number are Jordan and Taylor (and Connor and Dylan now, he supposes, but they’re literally in the next room over and as such have absolutely no reason to call him. Unless Dylan’s doing something stupid again, which honestly isn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility.)

The readout on the screen doesn’t even list a number, let alone a possible location or any contact info, but he picks it up anyways. “Hello?”

“Is this Ryan Nugent-Hopkins?” the caller asks, voice garbled as if it’s being passed through a modulator.

“Who’s asking?” Ryan responds, wary.

“I need to know before I can tell you anything,” they insist. “It’s important.”

Ryan freezes up. If his mysterious caller has Ryan’s actual phone number, not just a burner phone, then they must know something important that Ryan needs to know. On the other hand, it’s just as possible that they’re one of Chiarelli’s people, or – god forbid – the law.

But his need for information (and something to _fucking do_ ) wins out. Finally, he sighs and says, “Yes, I’m Ryan. What do you need?”

“I have Taylor Hall with me,” they say. “He won’t wake up. I was told to call you and confirm transportation details so I can deliver him into your care.”

“He won’t – _what_?” Ryan repeats, incredulous.

There’s a staticky sigh. “Something happened down there, down in the dream. I can tell you what I know when I get to wherever you are, but I need to know that first. Where are you, where’s the closest airport, and when’s the earliest you can come pick Taylor up?”

“Um – sorry, yeah, I’m in Mississauga, Pearson is probably the closest airport, and I think I can come pick him up whenever?” Ryan says. It’s definitely more of a question – there’s so much Jordan and Taylor need to explain when (not _if_ , he refuses to think about _if_ ) they come back. This is – so much more than he ever expected.

The other side of the line is silent for a while, and Ryan wildly wonders if they hung up, if that was his last chance to see Taylor and maybe figure out what happened, but then the caller comes back. “Okay, I have a flight booked to arrive tomorrow at ten in the morning. Does that work for you?”

“Yeah, that – that’s fine,” Ryan says.

“Great, I’ll see you then!” the caller says, tone chipper even through the modulator, and then the line clicks dead.

* * *

They’re totally fine with taking Taylor in as well, and Connor even offers to go pick him up with Ryan before Ryan points out that he has a car back at the apartment. Dylan, listening in, counters with the fact that “whatever happened to them, there’s a good chance that they know where you live now. Someone’s got to be watching your place and waiting for you to come back.”

He’s got a point.

Ryan concedes this point, as much as he hates to do it, and lets Connor drive him to Pearson. He’s not exactly sure where he’s supposed to meet Taylor’s – caretaker, but he supposes that he’ll figure it out eventually.

And he’s right. The moment he steps out of the car, someone waves him down. “Ryan, right?” he calls. “I’m Darnell.”

He smiles, friendly and open, and Ryan can’t help but smile back. “It’s good to meet you,” he says.

“You too,” Darnell says. “Come on, Taylor’s waiting.”

Turning, he takes off on a brisk walk into the bowels of the airport, but Ryan matches him stride for stride. They eventually come to a room that looks like it’s used for interrogations, but it’s currently empty save for two other people and a gurney. That Taylor’s on. Fuck.

When Ryan sees Taylor, his heart breaks. Taylor is stiff and unmoving – signs of somnacin-induced sleep, perhaps, except that there can’t be any of the drug left in his system this long after the botched job. He almost looks–

but Ryan won’t let himself think that, not when just twelve hours ago he had nothing. At least he has Taylor now, in body if not in spirit.

It’s all he can do just to stop himself from rushing to Taylor’s side, but he manages to hold himself in. “Is he–”

“He’s okay,” Darnell says. “As okay as he can be, given the circumstances.”

Ryan swallows hard. “Thank you for bringing him,” he says, for lack of anything better to say.

Darnell seems pleased though, smiling widely (although it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes). “Glad to help an old friend,” he says.

“How do you know him?” Ryan asks, curious.

“I – I went to school with Ebs and Hallsy,” Darnell says. “We’ve kept in touch.”

And Ryan’s surprised, thought there would have been more of a reason for Darnell to help them out, but before he can ask, Darnell cuts to the chase. “Are you okay with leaving him? We need to talk about what happened in Edmonton.”

Ryan isn’t sure _how_ okay he is with leaving, but Darnell honestly doesn’t look like he’s offering much choice, so Ryan lets himself be steered to a Timmy’s in the airport as Darnell’s people presumably take Taylor to Connor’s car.

The charming grin doesn’t drop off Darnell’s face until they slide into a booth with their coffees. As soon as they’re face to face, however, it’s all serious. “Jordan called me two days ago and told me that Taylor had disappeared inside the dream and wouldn’t wake up. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t been able to get Taylor out.”

“Is he gonna be okay?” Ryan asks.

Darnell shakes his head, picking at a napkin. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I have no idea what happened. All Jordan said was that Taylor forged down there and couldn’t get back into his own skin. I don’t even have my own PASIV on me, so I couldn’t check. You need to find someone to check him out as soon as possible.”

“I think I have people who can help,” Ryan says, thinking of Connor and Dylan and how they’ve already gotten three job offers in the past week.

“That’s good,” Darnell says, visibly relieved. “Take care of him, okay?”

Without another word, he leaves, Ryan left behind to stare and wonder how his partners have managed to inspire such loyalty in so many people.

Then he thinks about his own attachment to them and – oh, yeah, right. It’s really not much of a mystery at all. Taylor’s dynamic, and Jordan’s kind, and the real question is how anyone can _not_ love them.

* * *

Connor and Dylan go under as soon as they get Taylor situated on the bed in Ryan’s room. Ryan feels useless, just like he always had whenever Jordan and Taylor needed to dream, but there’s nothing for him to do besides sit and wait. They’ll wake up when the timer runs out.

So Ryan pulls out his sketchbook. He sketches a rough outline of Connor, slumped in one of the chairs next to the bed, features soft and slack. Dylan appears with firm, dark strokes next to him, leaning towards him even in sleep as if drawn by an irresistible force.

But after that, Ryan’s stuck. He’s never been able to draw Taylor properly before – not for lack of trying, of course, but there’s always – _something_ – that he can never get quite right. Sometimes the hair doesn’t stick up enough, or the lips just aren’t pursed right, or the eyebrows are too low. The pages of his sketchbooks are filled with half-finished scribblings of Taylor’s face and body, drawings that he _knows_ he should be able to finish but just – can’t.

He tries again anyways. Taylor asleep (soft, quiet, carefree) is nothing like Taylor awake (too loud, brash, overthinking), so maybe he’ll be able to figure it out this time. The lines flow naturally out of his pencil, just like everything else he draws, but as he continues he realises that something’s still wrong. The Taylor on his page is lifeless, still, and that’s nothing like the Taylor he knows.

(But it looks exactly like the Taylor in front of him, and that’s what hurts him the most.)

He can’t stand to look at the drawing anymore. Putting the sketchbook away, he resorts to watching Connor and Dylan’s faces and cataloguing every movement they make, trying to figure out anything about what’s going on down in the dream.

“Any luck?” he asks as soon as Connor’s eyes open. “Did you find him?”

Connor shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says dejectedly. “His projections are running wild. They’re fucking crazy, rioting or something like that.”

“Wouldn’t give us a second glance, even after we fucked around with the dreamscape,” Dylan adds, running a hand through his hair. “We’re going to need to find someone else.”

“I don’t know anyone in dreamshare at all,” Ryan admits. “Who would even be able to draw him out of there?”

Connor shrugs. “It’s entirely possible that Jordan would be able to do it, given time. But he’s not here, so–”

“I heard Sidney Crosby had set up in Pittsburgh for a while,” Dylan muses. “That’s not too far. We could drive there, maybe, with Taylor. I’m sure he could do it, if anyone could.”

Ryan shakes his head. “You don’t need to drive to Pittsburgh for us. I’m sure I can think of something.”

“If you say so,” Connor says doubtfully. “Option’s always there, though.”

* * *

Ryan barely leaves the apartment any more. He takes care of Taylor and keeps up with Darnell (“Call me Nursey”) and his search for Jordan. Connor and Dylan take quick jobs all the time, simple in-and-outs with unmilitarised marks that don’t need any complex builds, but sometimes they get a job that _does_ require the services of an architect. When they do, Ryan is more than happy to help.

He goes down into Taylor’s dream just once, when the PASIV isn’t in use and he’s tired of not being able to do more for either of his partners. But it’s – it’s terrifying, swirling colours and rushing images and he wakes up breathing like he’s just run a marathon.

There’s no way he can make heads or tails out of Taylor’s dream. He retches, head spinning, and decides that he can’t go back in there. It’s a waste of time and resources, and there’s _got_ to be someone else out there who can pull Taylor out. So that’s what he spends his free time looking for.

(He misses his paints and easel. All he has is a sketchbook, and when that’s filled up, cheap spiral-bound lined notebooks. It’s not the same.)

Some days, he looks at Connor and Dylan and feels his heart ache. He watches the easy way they move around each other, how they know each other’s movements and mannerisms by heart, _the way they look at each other_ , and misses Jordan and Taylor.

The problem is, he doesn’t know if he misses simply being around them or something else, something he’s never had and can’t ever have.

Those are the days he almost asks to borrow their PASIV and build his own dream just to remember the good days, but he can’t do that. Never mind that he barely knows how to control the dream, Connor and Dylan have already done so much for him and he wouldn’t feel right asking them for even more.

So instead, Ryan just sits by Taylor’s bedside and talks to him while he draws, hoping that maybe, somehow, his voice will pull Taylor back into his own body.

(He knows it’s not going to work, he knows that, short of paying for another team of skilled extractors to give it a shot, Taylor isn’t going to come back. But there’s nothing left for him to do but hope.)

* * *

He’s helping Connor and Dylan out with a build of an open-air market when his burner phone rings. It’s startling – he’d almost forgotten that it existed, holed up mostly off the grid as he is.

The tiny screen doesn’t give him a number or any caller ID, but he picks up anyway. There aren’t many people that know this number either. “Hello?”

“Hey, Ryan, it’s me,” the voice on the other end says. “It’s Jordan.”

Ryan’s mind goes into overdrive, and he mouths an apology and instructions to Dylan to trace the call before running into Taylor’s room and shutting the door, trying to get some privacy. “Jordan, oh my god, are you okay?” He feels his throat constrict, overcome at just being able to hear Jordan’s voice. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’m – I’m fine,” Jordan slurs out. “They’re tracing this call, okay, so you need to ditch this phone as soon as possible. I just – is Taylor all right?”

Ryan glances at Taylor, prone and unmoving on the bed. “He’s stable,” he settles for saying.

“Stable?” Jordan repeats, voice a little stronger. “Oh god, he – that bastard. Ryan, listen to me – don’t go down there after him, okay? You can’t do it. You can’t lose yourself too.”

“I won’t, I promise,” Ryan says fiercely. “Don’t worry. I’m coming for you, I swear. I’ll come get you, and then we can get Taylor back together.”

There’s a loud noise on the other end of the line, and Jordan whispers urgently, “Shit, they’re coming back. They want to use me to get at what we know, at our tech, but they need you to come in first, okay? They need an architect who understands the PASIV, and – I don’t know what they want, but you can’t come in. Stay away. I can get out on my own.”

“Like hell you can,” Ryan retorts. “We’ve got a trace on this too, we can get you–”

The dial tone resounds in his ear, the most frustrating sound he’s ever heard.

Ryan clenches the phone, feeling the blunt edges press into his skin, and represses the urge to throw it at the wall. Instead, he takes a few deep breaths, trying to get himself under control, before he calls out, “Did you get that?”

“I think so,” Dylan responds. “He’s in Edmonton.”

“Edmont – _fuck_ ,” Ryan says feelingly. “They didn’t move him, fucking–“ Looking down at the phone still in his hand, he sobers up, his practical side resurfacing. “We need to get rid of this phone.”

“I can do that,” Connor says, coming into the room.

“I need to get to Edmonton,” Ryan says, handing the phone to Connor. “I need to go get Jordan.”

“We’re coming,” Connor insists. “Dylan, can you find us a flight?”

“ ‘Us’?” Ryan repeats. “I can’t ask that of you. You’ve done so much for us already. And Taylor–”

“Taylor will be fine,” Connor reassures. “One of us can stay behind. You – Taylor and Jordan are my friends. This is the least I can do for them.”

* * *

So they fly to Edmonton. Ryan offers to pay Connor and Dylan back for the airfare, but Connor won’t hear anything of it. “I’m sure you guys can pay us back later if we need it,” he insists. Ryan doesn’t bother protesting, not when Connor’s got that set to his jaw and Dylan’s shooting Ryan a glance that very clearly says “Don’t fucking bother”.

The entire flight there, Ryan’s mind is running away from him, speculating and worrying and praying to whoever’s listening that Jordan will be fine. Connor, next to him, must sense some of that tension thrumming within Ryan’s body. “A friend is meeting us at the airport,” he says. “He can help us get Jordan back.”

It’s more comforting than Ryan would’ve expected, knowing that they might actually have a plan of action to get Jordan back. He hates that he’s been taking a back seat to all of this, that he’s been forced to do nothing but react to whatever’s thrown at him, so maybe here’s a chance for him to get back on his feet and do something for himself and his partners.

Connor’s friend is a German expat named Leon who holds himself with a military air and a perpetual frown, although he lightens up when he sees Connor. “How are you doing, old friend?” he asks. “Dylan didn’t come?”

“He couldn’t,” Connor says. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“You could never disappoint me,” Leon says softly, and Ryan wonders briefly if there’s some history there.

But they have more pressing matters to worry about. Once introductions are made, Leon hurries them into a waiting car and to a hotel room, which he makes sure to sweep for bugs before letting either Connor or Ryan speak.

Not that they would have had a chance to, anyways. Leon cuts right to the chase. “Do you have any weapons training?”

“Just a bit,” Ryan responds. “Taylor took me to a firing range a few times, showed me how to use a gun without killing anyone I don’t want to kill.”

Leon gets this funny look on his face, as if he knows more than he’s letting on, but he says nothing but, “You might need some of that today. I know where they’re keeping Jordan, and I know how to get in, but I can’t do it alone. We need a team.”

And Ryan’s never had any sort of combat training before, but he volunteers anyways. It’s the least he can do, and he can only hope that he’ll be more a help than a hindrance. Connor stays behind, citing the remnants of a nagging injury to his collarbone from his last job that went awry, but he gets them equipment for the mission anyways. When asked about it, he just shrugs. “You do this job for long enough, you make a few friends.”

Ryan doesn’t mention how he himself doesn’t seem to have any of said friends. It’s irrelevant, mostly.

* * *

“I was Taylor’s contact here,” Leon says quietly in the car that night, hands tight around the steering wheel. “I should have known something was wrong. Nothing ever felt right around EdOil. Not after Chiarelli came.”

Ryan still doesn’t know what exactly happened, but he still feels – somehow – that Leon had no part in it. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says, somewhat lamely.

“You don’t know that,” Leon answers.

Before Ryan can say anything else, Leon puts a finger to his lips and turns off their headlights, relying on his military-grade night vision goggles (which, what the _fuck_ ) to park the car in some undergrowth, just out of range of the floodlights.

The chain-link fence surrounding the complex has already been cut by one of Connor’s contacts. Ryan didn’t ask who – he wouldn’t have known them anyways, and it doesn’t really matter. Pat, the other guy on the mission tonight with Ryan and Leon, pulls it aside as quietly as possible while the other two slip through, coming in after them.

There’s a small service door set in the side of the compound, a decent way from the main entrance. Leon fiddles a bit with the card scanner before it beeps to unlock the door and let them in. The door creaks slightly when he opens it, eliciting a wince from all three of them, but no alarm sounds. They’re in the clear.

The hallway is empty, nothing in sight except a few scattered service closets. Leon barely gives any of them a second glance, instead quickly striding to a large, airy atrium at one end of the hallway. Ryan and Pat quickly follow, but Leon holds them back before they step into the open space, putting a finger to his lips before taking off himself.

Two security guards make their way through the atrium, looking bored as hell and barely paying attention to their surroundings. They nod silently at each other when their paths intersect, but other than that brief gesture are all but oblivious to the dark building around them. Ryan’s mind is already racing with ideas to take them down, but he discovers that that’s completely unnecessary when Leon appears behind one of them and fells him with a sharp blow to the head.

The other guard’s a bit slow on the uptake, eve after he hears the telltale sounds of a body crumpling to the ground. It’s enough to seal his fate, Pat knocking him out with a similar jab to the base of his skull.

Ryan’s done nothing yet, and he certainly has no idea if he would be able to do any of that tonight if called upon. But he doesn’t dwell on this, instead helping Leon drag one of the guards to a closet and strip him of his weapons and radio.

“We’re not here to kill anybody,” Leon says, in answer to Ryan’s unspoken question. “In and out, get Jordan and get out of here.”

There are three other hallways off the atrium besides the one they came through. Leon directs Ryan to the area marked “Storage”, saying that it’s probably the most likely place for Jordan to be. “Pat and I will check the other two,” he says. “Meet us back at the door we came in if you find him, or in an hour if you don’t.”

The doors in the storage wing just seem to lead to empty office rooms or closets, but the absence of accessible windows and the heavy duty locks on the doors – locking from the outside only – betray their dual purposes. Ryan tries not to think about why a medium-sized drilling corporation like EdOil would need to have a compound like this, nor why they would ever expect to have hostages like Jordan.

He knocks on every door he sees anyways, hoping against hope that Jordan’s behind one of them. The halls are deserted, but every shadow still makes his heart leap into his throat. If he gets caught too, there’s – there’s no hope for Taylor, no chance that he’ll ever get pulled out of his own mind. He needs to get out of here, and he needs to do it with Jordan.

There’s no sound anywhere in this hallway. Ryan hopes – Occam’s razor – that it’s just empty, and not that Jordan’s unconscious or worse somewhere here and he won’t ever be able to find him. He keeps going, because if he decided to double back and check every room again they’d never get out of here. But he’s losing hope.

Then he knocks on another door, and – there’s a quiet moan on the other side. “What more d’you want?” the prisoner pleads, and Ryan feels his heart break.

That’s Jordan’s voice, and he sounds so – _broken_ , so defeated and resigned, and Ryan never wants to hear him like that ever again. “It’s me,” he says frantically as he tries to jimmy the door open. “It’s Ryan. I came for you, I’ll get you out of here.”

The door won’t budge, and Ryan barely remembers how to pick a lock. He almost panics, wondering how he could have gotten so close only to be stumped at the very end, but somehow – by the grace of God, he doesn’t know – he manages to get it open.

Jordan – he doesn’t look good. He’s slumped in a corner of the empty room, ambient light from a small window high in the wall illuminating a few months’ worth of beard growth on his face and burning eyes sunk deep into his gaunt face, awake despite the late hour. But he lights up when he sees Ryan, although that’s quickly washed away by worry. “You shouldn’t have come,” he says hoarsely. “You’re the main target. They only took me to get to you.”

“I had to come back for you,” Ryan says, rushing to Jordan’s side. “Can you get up? We need to get out of here.”

Jordan slings an arm around Ryan’s shoulders and uses that as leverage to struggle to his feet. “We don’t have much time. The guards will be coming around soon.”

“Leon took care of them,” Ryan says as they make their way out of the room. “We’re in the clear.”

“No, you – ” Jordan says haltingly, before breaking off into a fit of coughing. Ryan cringes at the noise, worried that it’ll still somehow bring security down on them, but there’s not much else he can do. “They knew you were gonna come for me. Didn’t know when, but they’ve kept a close eye out and tightened security, more than Leon would’ve known. They’ll know you’re here soon.”

“Then we just have to be out of here before then,” Ryan says, far more confidently than he feels. “How fast can you move?”

Grimly, Jordan sets his teeth. “Fast enough,” he says, and they set off at a brisk trot to the service door Ryan came through.

Ryan’s naming off every deity he can think of in his heart as they make their way down the dark halls, rattled more by Jordan’s words than he’d care to admit. But it looks like they’ll make it, the main hallway silent and empty and the comforting green light blinking above it.

Then everything goes to shit.

A single alarm blares, and that’s all the warning they get before all the lights flash on and what looks like a fucking SWAT team descends on them, guns up and pointing at their hearts. “Drop your weapons!” one of them barks.

And Ryan’s not _holding_ any weapons, he put his gun away when he picked the lock on Jordan’s door for fuck’s sake, but he makes to draw it just so he can put it on the floor. But then he catches sight of a familiar black-clad figure darting behind an open door, gun out.

So he puts everything on the line and shoots the leader instead. He goes down screaming, bullet in his thigh. Shots ring out, and Ryan expects to be riddled with bullets within the next thirty seconds.

It doesn’t happen. When he opens his eyes (he hadn’t even realised he had squeezed them shut), half of the SWAT team is on the ground and the other half is apparently duking it out with Leon and Pat. Without a second thought, Ryan runs at one of them and tackles him to the ground, startling him enough that Ryan can hit him with the butt of his gun and knock him out.

Pat throws off his attacker first, hurling him into a wall with a display of force that Ryan privately thinks isn’t strictly necessary. “Head for the car!” he yells.

Hurrying back to Jordan (who’s – _fuck_ – collapsed on the ground again), Ryan helps him up and hurries for the exit. The car is still so far away, hidden in the undergrowth almost a quarter mile from the compound. Dropping that one team may have bought them some time, but the alarm’s been raised already.

“Come on, we can make it out!” Leon shouts, scrambling through the cut fence and sprinting for the car. He guns the engine as soon as he climbs in, Pat all but throwing himself into the passenger seat.

They can hear shouts behind them, the searchlights roving and narrowly missing them every time. Jordan’s still slow, but he manages to put on short bursts of speed, enough that Ryan can push him into the backseat and climb in after him, barely managing to buckle in before Leon pulls out with blistering speed. Jordan immediately slumps into Ryan – whether it’s from exhaustion or simply Leon’s ridiculous manoeuvring, Ryan can’t tell, but he’s not complaining.

Pat turns around once they make it onto the highway. “That took some nerve, what you did back there. Where did that come from?” he asks, impressed.

Ryan laughs shortly. “I have no idea,” he says, and promptly passes out.

* * *

Jordan needs a while to recover, as gaunt and exhausted as he is, and everyone tries to tell him to stay in Edmonton for at least a week or so before heading back home to see Taylor. He won’t hear any of it, however, and insists on going back with Ryan and Connor at the earliest possible opportunity. “The longer we stay here, the harder it’s gonna be to find Taylor and bring him out,” he argues, and won’t take no for an answer. 

So they fly back two days after breaking Jordan out. Ryan thanks Leon and Pat as best he can for all their help. They won’t hear of accepting any sort of payment, only asking for updates on Taylor’s condition as soon and as frequently as possible. Again, Ryan wonders how Jordan and Taylor have managed to inspire such friendship in other people.

He says as much to Connor, who just gives him a strange look before pointing out that Ryan literally shot a man for Jordan. So.

That doesn’t really answer the question, but Ryan stops asking. He knows what Connor means.

* * *

When they get back to Toronto, Jordan barely gives Dylan a second glance before shooing him out of Taylor’s room and closing the door. Ryan aches to be in there with them – more than he’d care to admit – but he knows that Jordan needs time alone with Taylor.

He hadn’t realised how alone he had felt until he got Jordan back. Because as obvious as it used to be that he and Taylor were dating, Ryan had never felt out of place with them, never felt like an awkward third who was always in the way. Even when they would go out on date night or lock themselves in their room, Ryan had never felt anything but affection. He had always known that they would come back to him. But now – now that he doesn’t know – he’s so much more acutely aware of what they used to have.

Now he longs for them in a way he hadn’t before. He wants to be in that room with them, wants to know what Jordan’s saying to Taylor, wants to know if Taylor will wake up now that he has Jordan by his side. And it’s more than just knowing, too – Ryan wants to be _part of that_.

He doesn’t know what to do with this revelation.

So he doesn’t do anything, not even when Jordan comes out of Taylor’s room with thunder on his face and a deep pain in his eyes, wordlessly reaching for Ryan. Ryan goes willingly into Jordan’s arms, letting Jordan clutch his shirt and tremble.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Ryan says soothingly, rubbing Jordan’s back. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t wanna lose him too,” Jordan mumbles, face pressed into Ryan’s neck.

And there’s something he’s not saying here, some subtext that Ryan thinks he’s supposed to understand but just – doesn’t. There’s not much else he can do here besides hold Jordan close. He knows he’s not what Jordan needs, but all he can do is hope that it’s enough for now.

* * *

They order takeout for lunch, trying to steer clear of talking about Taylor in their conversation. Jordan looks lost in thought, picking at his food without actually eating any of it (although god knows he needs to). “I can’t – I can’t do this alone,” he suddenly says. “I can’t go in there by myself. Taylor’s mind is – vast, dangerous like that. He’s lost, and I might get lost too.”

“I can go with you,” Connor volunteers.

Jordan shakes his head. “No,” he says, to Ryan’s surprise. “I want Ryan to come with me. It’s a – he knows us better than anyone. It’ll be a lot easier if he’s down there with us.”

And Ryan’s flummoxed, can’t remember a single time when Jordan had ever invited him down into the dream (because he never has), but he also remembers how terrifying Taylor’s dream was, the one time he had dared to go. But – but now they have a chance, an actual chance at getting him back, and if there’s anything he’s learned these past few months, it’s that a life without Taylor Hall in it is terrifying. “I’ll do it,” he says.

Jordan grins, and it almost reaches his eyes, almost takes away that haunted worry that’s been plaguing him since Ryan first found him in that dark room. “Knew you would,” he says, too-light.

* * *

Jordan insists on setting up Ryan’s IV for him. The soft touch of Jordan’s fingertips skimming over Ryan’s forearm is almost too much to bear, and Ryan’s thankful that Connor and Dylan are both in the room with them. He doesn’t know if he could control himself if they weren’t here.

But there’s something burning in Jordan’s eyes, unfamiliar and terrifying, as he stares at Ryan and explains what he’s doing. It sounds more like he’s trying to reassure himself than anything else, so Ryan just lets him pour the cocktail of drugs into the machine and slip the needle into his forearm.

When he gets his own IV situated, Jordan says, “Ryan, I – there’s something I need to tell you.”

Ryan shakes his head, not wanting any distractions. “You can tell us once we get Taylor out.” He closes his eyes, hitting the button on the PASIV, and lets sleep wash over him.

They wake in the bleachers of a dark skating rink, the only light streaming in from high windows. There’s the sharp, clean sound of skates cutting through the clean ice, pucks hitting the boards, and Ryan feels – home.

But this isn’t his dream, this is Taylor’s dream, and that’s Taylor gliding around down there like he’s born for it, pucks appearing on his stick every time he wrists one into the net on one end of the ice. He’s – he’s _beautiful_ , languid movements and silken hands, and Ryan’s struck with how much he’s missed Taylor in these past few months.

He turns to Jordan, and – _oh, right_. Jordan has the same stupid, awed look on his face that Ryan knows he himself had, but – but Jordan’s allowed. Ryan doesn’t know how he forgot about that, but somehow, he did. Too wrapped up in getting them back to think about what would happen once they were, he supposes.

But however else he feels, he’s elated that Taylor’s _right there_ , alive like he hasn’t really been in months. “Taylor!” he calls before he can stop himself.

Taylor stops skating and looks up, a wide grin blossoming on his face when he sees Jordan and Ryan. “I haven’t seen you guys in so long! Where have you been?”

Jordan goes tense, stiffening at Ryan’s side. “He doesn’t – he doesn’t know,” he whispers. “He doesn’t have his totem. He can’t tell.”

Another figure suddenly appears on the opposite end of the ice, skating aimlessly in circles and stickhandling a puck around. Ryan recognises him immediately, despite never having seen him in the waking world before. “That’s Adam, isn’t it?”

“That’s Rico,” Jordan agrees quietly. “He’s been haunting Taylor for years, even if he only actually started appearing during that job. Of course he’d be here.”

“So how do we get him out?” Ryan asks. “Taylor’s not even paying attention to us anymore.”

“We’re not part of the dream, so his mind is blocking us out,” Jordan says. “He’s not going to notice anyone but Rico, now.”

And, yes, even as they speak Taylor’s bounding over to the other man boisterously, playfully tackling him down to the ice. They grapple for a bit, laughing all the while, and Jordan and Ryan can’t do anything but watch.

Taylor pins Adam down, an echo of the scene they saw what feels like years ago, and leans down to kiss him. A strangled gasp rises in Jordan’s throat, but Ryan can’t seem to summon any emotion beyond disbelief and a pervading feeling that this is _wrong_. “He chose him,” Jordan whispers, broken, choked. “Taylor chose him. We can’t have him.”

Ryan glances at him in alarm. “Hey, Jordan, this isn’t real,” he says, nudging his shoulder. “We’re in a dream, remember?”

“It’s Taylor’s dream,” Jordan says. “And this is what he dreams about. This is what he chose.”

Ryan shakes his head, ignoring the fear rising in his chest. “Hey, no, you said he was lost, remember? This is what his ‘being lost’ means. We can get him out. He just needs to see you.”

Down on the rink, Taylor and Adam make to skate off, and suddenly, by dream logic, they’re all in a generic locker room, Jordan and Ryan watching as Taylor takes off his skates. “Hey, Taylor!” Ryan tries, as enthusiastically as possible.

Taylor just mutters a “Hey” back nonchalantly, all but ignoring him. Ryan tries again, but the response is the same. Now that Taylor’s shade has arrived in the dream, Taylor’s not willing to give the intruders (because, really, that’s what Ryan and Jordan are) the time of day.

But Jordan gives it a shot anyways, trying to take a different tack. “Hey, Hallsy, you wanna go get ice cream later?”

“I have plans with Henny,” Taylor says offhandedly. “Maybe a different time?”

Jordan sighs, but tries again. “I – we’re busy for the next week or so. Can’t you hang out with Rico a different time?”

And Taylor’s miffed, now, looks up with a bit of annoyance. But at least he’s paying attention to them. “I can’t just _cancel_ on him like that.”

Clearly this is getting nowhere, so Ryan decides to step in and just – be blunt and honest about the entire thing. “He’s not real, Taylor. You’re dreaming, and we’re here to take you out.”

Taylor refuses to listen. “How is this a dream? I came to the rink from the apartment, and I have plans to head to Henny's place after I pack up. I know exactly what’s going on.”

“Please listen to us,” Jordan begs. “You’re dreaming. Would I lie to you?”

“What’s gotten into you?” Taylor laughs, somewhat condescendingly, and it feels so – so _wrong_. Taylor shouldn’t ever sound like that, and the Taylor Ryan knows never does. “You keep saying that. Does this feel like a dream? Don’t, like, shoot yourself trying to wake up.”

“Taylor, _look at me_ ,” Jordan says, kneeling down so that he’s at eye level with Taylor. Ryan should look away, he thinks he should feel like he’s intruding, but he can’t bring himself to give Jordan and Taylor their privacy. “You know what a dream feels like. Think about it.”

“Yeah, I do, and this is real,” Taylor says, more insistently now. “I’m not dreaming.”

Taking a deep breath, Jordan says, “Would Rico be here if you were awake?”

Taylor opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. His eyes flicker to Adam, unaware, on the other side of the locker room, and Ryan can almost hear his mind work. (Maybe he can. They’re standing in Taylor’s subconscious, after all.) As soon as the realisation hits his eyes, the dream collapses around them, Taylor’s dreaming mind approximating its best impression of an earthquake as concrete crumbles and steel falls.

Ryan bolts awake, panting heavily. He makes to tear the IV from his arm, but his fingertips only touch smooth skin. “We’re still dreaming,” he realises as the dream – an ice cream shop, cold and clear – materialises around them. “There’s another layer.”

“How is that possible?” Jordan asks, sitting forward in his chair. “We only went under once. We should be awake by now.”

“I – I thought we could just shoot ourselves awake,” Ryan says. “Is that not the case?”

“That’s what’s _supposed_ to happen,” Taylor says. “None of us are under any other sedative besides somnacin, right?”

Ryan shakes his head. “Shouldn’t be. We were trying to bring you out this entire time, why would we still be dreaming?”

“I don’t know,” Jordan says, frustrated. “Connor wouldn’t have slipped anything into the mixture.”

“Well, this dream isn’t mine,” Taylor comments, looking around. “This isn’t something I created. It doesn’t feel like me.”

“I – I think it’s all of ours,” Ryan says softly. “I think we’re all hosting this dream.”

“How would you know?” Taylor asks.

Ryan shrugs. “It feels like ours. Like home.”

Taylor and Jordan share a strange look, something heavy and unspoken hanging in the air even though Ryan has no idea what it could possibly be. But before they can say anything, there’s something else that catches their eye first.

They don’t say anything for a few beats, though, leaving Ryan confused and mildly concerned. “What is it?” he asks.

“Turn around,” Jordan says quietly. “Slow. Don’t draw any attention.”

Ryan does as he says. There’s nothing out of place, just other projections sitting and eating ice cream, a child running around and couples laughing.

But then something clicks, and he notices a middle-aged man, bowl of vanilla untouched on the table in front of him. The man is staring at them, beady eyes searching as if they’re trying to pierce into Ryan’s soul. “Who’s that?” he asks.

“That’s Peter Chiarelli,” Jordan says. “Our mark.”

“Obviously he’s not, like, _actually_ our mark,” Taylor says. “He’s a projection.”

Ryan blinks. “But he seems so – self aware. He’s not part of this scene. He’s–”

“He’s not letting us leave,” Jordan suddenly realises. “He’s controlling this dream, somehow. Which means he’s one of ours. One of us is projecting him, if we’re all dreaming this at the same time.”

“He’s not mine,” Taylor says when they both turn to look at him.

Jordan furrows his brow. “He’s not mine either.”

“He can’t be mine!” Ryan protests. “I’ve never – I’ve never met him in my life. How could I be projecting him?”

“You’ve seen his face. That’s more than enough,” Taylor sighs.

Shaking his head, Jordan takes a deep breath. “I think it’s time we told him the truth, Taylor. We can’t keep hiding this from him forever.”

“Hiding what?” Ryan demands. “What are you talking about?”

They’re both silent, guiltily averting their gazes. But Ryan’s nothing if not patient, so he just waits for one of them to break.

And it’s Taylor who does first, because of _course_ it’s Taylor. He starts slow, however, working up the will to tell a secret that’s been festering for years, apparently. “We know you. We’ve known you for a really long time. Longer than – than you remember.”

“What do you mean?” Ryan asks, confused.

Instead of explaining, Jordan changes the subject. “Hallsy and I don’t talk about our pasts, right?”

“You also never call him Hallsy,” Ryan points out.

“Not anymore,” Jordan says. “Because that’s what _we_ called him. Hallsy and Ebs and Nuge, the three of us, that’s who we were. When we lost you, the nicknames stopped.”

Ryan protests, “But you never – you never lost me. I didn’t know you until you showed up on my doorstep two days before graduation.”

Jordan sighs. “That wasn’t the first time we met. You just don’t remember knowing us before then, because Chiarelli said it was too dangerous.”

“What the – what the _fuck_ does Chiarelli have to do with this?” Ryan demands.

Taylor takes a deep breath, as if he’s steeling himself. “You were incepted,” he says finally. “You were incepted, and there was no way you could have continued on with the program, so your memories were erased. But that – that was dangerous, and it shouldn’t have happened.”

“It’s why we couldn’t let you dream,” Jordan adds. “If you ran into a memory down here, who knows what could have happened.”

“Clearly nothing,” Ryan says, mildly affronted. “I’m fine right now, aren’t I?”

Taylor shakes his head. “You don’t remember anything, though, do you? You don’t remember us, or any of the other guys, or the project, or –”

“You worked with us on Project Somnacin,” Jordan interrupts. “Everyone else – everyone who’s helped you since the Bostursa job – was on that team. But the three of us, we were good together.”

“We were _the best_ together,” Taylor insists fiercely. “We could do anything. And then – and then something happened to you. You got incepted, and you had to leave, and we had to wipe your memories so the inception wouldn’t take.”

His words hit Ryan with all the force of a freight train, but there’s still something Ryan doesn’t understand. “But what does Chiarelli have to do with all this? Why am I supposed to remember him?”

“He was the head of the program,” Jordan says. “We lost track of him, after. He was the one who told us we had to – we had to leave you.”

“We couldn’t, though,” Taylor says. “It took us so long, but we found you. We weren’t going to lose you again.” And it’s hard for Ryan to process how much he apparently means to his partners, enough that they sought him out even when they were told not to, even when they ran the risk of reigniting those old, apparently dangerous memories (and maybe he should be a bit more upset about this than he actually is).

The same girls who had just left the parlor come back in and order the same thing as last time, and Ryan remembers this is a dream again and that there are more important things at hand. “So Chiarelli is my–”

“He’s your shade,” Taylor says. “Like Henny was for me. He’s keeping us all in this dream.”

“Okay, well, if he’s mine, shouldn’t he just – _disappear_?” Ryan asks, trying to remember all that he’s been told about projections.

Jordan sighs. “You can’t just wish him away. He’s not a regular projection. You need to kill him.”

“Okay, well, that shouldn’t be too hard, should it?” Ryan says, and pictures a gun appearing in his hand.

It doesn’t happen.

“You can’t do it unless you remember who he is and what he represents,” Taylor says, a frantic note creeping into his voice. “That’s how shades work.”

So Ryan tries, again, but he doesn’t know how anyone’s supposed to force themselves to remember what he’s forgotten. Thoughts swirl in his mind as he tries to concentrate, tries to somehow remember times that he didn’t think had ever happened, but he has no idea what he’s doing.

Jordan picks up on this. “We can’t do this for you,” he says sadly.

“I can’t do it either!” Ryan shouts, louder than he had intended, feeling the dream reverberate with his emotions. “I don’t remember this, I’m sorry, I want to, but I don’t!”

Jordan takes a deep breath. “You need to remember,” he insists, carefully, quietly, as if Ryan is a wild animal that could spook and run away at any minute. “You need to remember, and then you need to kill this projection. It’s our only way out.”

But Ryan still can’t. He doesn’t remember, no matter how much he tries. There’s nothing left in his memory of Project Somnacin, of those days before art school, of all of them together – not just the three of them, but apparently also Connor and Dylan and Darnell and Leon. He can’t remember any of it.

He says as much out loud in frustration. There’s no way in hell he can regain his memories just by _trying_ , that’s not how it works.

Taylor, of course, doesn’t believe him, insisting that there’s got to be a way for Ryan to remember everything. “They’ve got to be down there somewhere! We never killed them, we just buried them, come _on_ , just think!”

“I can’t fucking do that!” Ryan insists.

“Oh my god, just – Jesus Christ, you–” And before Ryan can comprehend what, exactly, Taylor wants him to do, Taylor grabs his face and–

And kisses him.

Ryan hasn’t been more acutely aware of the dream they’re in than now, when Taylor is kissing him with those plush lips and it’s almost what he wants. But there’s something off, something that just feels unreal and incomplete.

And now he’s overthinking it, because that’s what he _does_ , but then Taylor’s hand comes creeping up under his shirt at the small of his back and, _oh_ , there’s a touch he’s been longing for. Sure, this is a dream, but this is still _so much_ , something he wished he never let himself think about, and he leans into the touch, losing himself in the kiss.

Something clicks in Ryan’s mind, almost audible in the dream around them. The memories come rushing back, slotting neatly into place in a hole he didn’t even realise was there. He remembers Project Somnacin, fucking around in the lab that he can’t stop drawing whenever he had free time, meeting Connor and Leon and Dylan and Darnell and – and Jordan and Taylor.

He sees images, memories, of who they were to each other. Always together, never apart, always leaning on and supporting each other. He sees the – _thing_ that went unspoken between them, something that they always thought they would have time for but never did.

And he finally remembers why he forgot all of this. He remembers being in the dream, a sketch of a stadium half-realised in his mind as he raced around the ice, closely pursued by a laughing Taylor, and a sudden conviction that he could never have this.

So he had stopped. He had stopped mid-stride, and Taylor crashed into him, still giggling helplessly as they both tumbled to the ice face to face. And Ryan had said something like “This isn’t real, this could never happen,” and the pain he still can see, clear as day, in Taylor’s eyes? It breaks him.

But the Taylor he sees _now_ , the one who’s kissing him – he pulls away, and he’s looking at Ryan as if he hung the moon, a gaze that Ryan really never thought would be directed at him. But before he can do much more than laugh in disbelief, Jordan clears his throat and asks, “So?”

“So I remember,” Ryan says, cautious despite himself. “I knew you. I _know_ you.”

Jordan smiles. It’s the most beautiful thing Ryan thinks he’s ever seen. “Yes, you do,” Jordan says. “And – and you’re okay?”

Something shifts in Jordan’s eyes then. It’s familiar, but unsettlingly so. Ryan’s seen this on Jordan’s face hundreds of times, mostly when he thinks Ryan’s not looking and – and it’s fear. Jordan’s terrified to lose him – lose him _again_ , Ryan suddenly realises. It hurts, to see that raw fear on Jordan’s face. Ryan never wants to see that ever again.

“Yeah. I’m alright. I’m here,” he says, grinning.

And then he turns to the more important issue at hand. This time, Ryan feels a gun materialise in his hand as soon as he thinks about it, and his fingers curl over the cold, unfamiliar steel. Looking the projection of Chiarelli in the eye, he lifts the gun and pulls the trigger, watching as it sinks into the projection and the image just – flies apart like shattered glass.

Everything around them fades to white, the screams and cries of the projections in the ice cream parlor bleeding away, but Jordan and Taylor – they’re still there. And Taylor just _fucking kissed him_ , and maybe that’s something they need to address, but then Jordan hugs him tightly without saying a word. Taylor wraps himself around them, and it’s _perfect_.

Between them, he’s home.

They stay like that for who knows how long, lost in their minds, in the dream, waiting for the timer to run out.

Ryan doesn’t even realise that he’s out until he blinks awake slowly, back in the uncomfortable chair next to Taylor’s bed. Connor’s all big worried eyes on the other side of the bed, relief visible in the slump of his shoulders when Ryan smiles at him. “Did it work?” he asks. “You let the timer run out. We were worried.”

“Fucking hell, I’ve got the worst headache,” Taylor grumbles, groaning and rolling over despite the IV still attached to his arm.

A collective exhale ripples through the room, and then Ryan suddenly starts laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Jordan’s shocked for a moment, but he gives in eventually, and then everyone’s giggling and everything is okay.

* * *

They find a new apartment and move most of their stuff under the cover of night, away from Chiarelli’s spies (that Ryan honestly still doesn’t even believe in.) Everything goes back to normal, except that now Ryan won’t take no for an answer when he wants to dream, and Connor and Dylan drop in a few times on their way to and back from their own jobs. Jordan takes a few weeks to recover from his ordeal, but he’s back to his old self soon enough. And it’s fine, everything is fine, except that now sometimes he’ll catch Taylor shooting covert glances at him from across the room when he thinks Ryan’s not looking, or notice Jordan staring at his lips instead of his eyes.

They don’t talk about it, though. Ryan doesn’t know what’s going on, doesn’t know if Taylor and Jordan have discussed the situation on their own, doesn’t know if that was a one-time thing meant to just pull the memories back into his own mind, but he knows he can’t live in this limbo forever.

He’ll be damned if he’s actually going to make the first move, though, not when Jordan and Taylor are still pretty fucking obviously together, and have been since he – came back to them. Because he remembers exactly what happened all those years ago now, remembers waking up convinced that he could never have what he wanted with Jordan and Taylor, that he didn’t fit with them, that there was still so much between them that he could never be a part of.

All it took was for him to say it once. It must have been an offhanded comment he barely remembers, that’s how unimportant it had seemed at the time, but the next thing he knew Jordan was clutching at him, crying and apologising for something he hadn’t done yet even as he slipped the familiar needle into Ryan’s veins.

Ryan can’t remember anything else new after that. That’s where the memories stop. But they’re making new memories now, right? Taking new jobs and designing new dreams, and Ryan _finally_ gets to go under and see his own work firsthand. It’s good enough, for now.

* * *

But there comes a time when it’s not good enough. The new (old) memories slot themselves nicely into Ryan’s brain, and eventually they feel like they’ve always been there (which, technically, they have) and there’s nothing new for him to _discover_. He just keeps thinking about how it felt, to think that he wasn’t ever going to belong in between his boys, and wonders how he could have ever believed that.

He’s not going to act on it, though. If he has his way, he’ll _never_ have to act on it, because what they have is good enough.

Taylor, however, seems to think otherwise, considering that he suddenly brings it up completely out of the blue one night when they’re squished together on the couch watching TV. “So, Ryan, how would you feel about dating us?”

Ryan chokes on air. “How – how is that even an option?”

Jordan shrugs. “We’ve been talking about it, and we both really like you, and it’s really not like that much would change. Except that you’d know that we wanted you.”

“Which would be really great, because then we wouldn’t just have to _talk_ about doing stuff with you,” Taylor interrupts, earnest.

“So what? I just get to – to have both of you?” Ryan asks incredulously. “And that would work?”

Taylor shrugs. “I mean, we can’t know for sure,” he says, “but it’s worth a try. At least, we think it is.”

“Is it?” Ryan presses. “I remember, now. Someone incepted me, told me that I couldn’t fit with you two. But an inception won’t take hold unless there’s something there for it to grow on. What you have here is – is really good, and I don’t want to come between you.”

“You’re not coming between us,” Jordan protests. “You and Taylor and me, we fit together. When you – left, we fell apart, and you saw what happened with Rico. We couldn’t do this without you. We still can’t.”

“Please,” Taylor says, lips almost brushing the shell of Ryan’s ear. “We need you.”

And that’s what breaks him, really, has him swinging around to catch Taylor’s face in his hands and Taylor’s plush lips with his own. It’s more than he could have ever imagined, feeling Taylor’s skin under his fingertips as Taylor’s mouth moves against his.

Then he feels lips on his neck, teeth nipping lightly as Jordan decides to get in on the fun and sets to work marking up Ryan’s skin. He tilts his head to the side, wordlessly giving Jordan the permission he’s been all but begging for, and it’s – a lot.

Taylor finally pulls back, breathing heavily, and the sight of him with red, kiss-bitten lips and blown pupils is almost more than Ryan can bear. But he can’t tear his eyes away, not when Taylor looks so debauched and desperate.

Then Jordan tugs at him, wordlessly pleading, and Ryan can’t resist. He falls into Jordan’s arms, losing himself in the sweet give and take, and it’s so different from kissing Taylor, yet just as exhilarating and – and _right_.

And Taylor doesn’t want to be left out while Jordan sticks his tongue into Ryan’s mouth, so he nips at Ryan’s jaw and leaves his own matching mark, a “mine, too” to Jordan’s bites. “You’re ours,” he says fiercely. “And don’t you ever forget that.”

Ryan shudders at the words that settle heavy into his soul. He feels – he feels wanted, owned, _loved_ for the first time in what seems like forever.

Then Jordan says, “You’re thinking too loud,” and proceeds to drive every coherent thought out of Ryan’s head with the help of Taylor’s wandering hands.

* * *

They continue on like this. Ryan’s sketching on the sofa when Taylor comes home from a meeting with a prospective client and takes the sketchbook out his hands, ignoring Ryan’s protests. “Cuddle me,” he demands, putting his head in Ryan’s lap.

Ryan sighs but pushes his hand into Taylor’s hair anyways, mindlessly fucking around on his phone with the other hand as Taylor’s breathing evens out. Suddenly, Ryan’s phone rings, and he fumbles with it, trying not to bother Taylor. “Hello?” he asks, trying to keep his voice down.

“I hear you’ve regained your memories, Ryan,” the man on the other side of the line says. “You don’t know how good it is to hear that.”

“Who is this?” Ryan demands.

Laughter. “You know who I am.”

“I really don’t,” Ryan says, about to hang up.

But there’s something in the intonation that seems familiar, like he’s definitely heard it before. The name pops unbidden to his lips before he can even properly think it. “Chiarelli.”

“That’s me,” Chiarelli says, too-light and happy. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I just need to know one thing – who hired you?”

“Why would I ever tell you?” Ryan responds, struggling to keep his voice even and calm.

Chiarelli laughs, an unsettlingly hollow sound. “I have something you might want back.”

Jordan’s on the phone with his mom, the soothing cadence of his voice emanating from the kitchen, and Taylor has apparently drifted off. Ryan doesn’t know what Chiarelli is talking about, and tells him as much in no uncertain terms.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Chiarelli promises menacingly. Before Ryan can say anything else, the line clicks dead. _God_ , he’s stupid, he could have maybe tried to trace that call,

Jordan stirs, pressing his face into Ryan’s stomach. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah, I – I think so,” Ryan says, distractedly. He can’t stop thinking about Chiarelli’s threat.

Against his thigh, his phone vibrates, startling him. It’s a text from Connor.

_Have you heard from Dylan? He’s not answering his phone._

**Author's Note:**

> holy SHIT this is the longest thing i’ve ever finished. am i sorry about villainising chiarelli???? hell fckin naw he’s a Great antagonist. 
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://olllmaatta.tumblr.com) if you wanna yell at me. sequel is in the works, i promise


End file.
